I tried hanging out with the Baton Rouge Gator Club earlier this year for the Tennessee game, and perhaps my expectations were too high but I didn't have a great time. They hosted the game at the local country club, and it was a little too stuffy for my tastes. Give me a brew, some wings, and tons of screaming fans and you have my idea of watching some football. This was not that. In the worst possible way.
Needless to say, I held off watching any more games with them because they continued to host them at the country club. This past weekend, though, one of the members offered up her house, enticing everyone with beer pong, BBQ, and lots of beer and big screen TVs: so pretty much all of my favorite B's.
I decided to go, hoping the change in location would mean a change in atmosphere. I was right - it was a completely different kind of crowd. Same people, but removing the hovering waiters and sparkling china made a huge difference.
Everything was going really well, and I was actually enjoying myself when the touching started. Two of the men at the party (the vice president of the club, and the man hosting the party with his WIFE) began grabbing my shoulder, patting me on the back, and generally finding other ways to touch me as I entered and exited a room. I realize this all sounds rather tame, but they're both married and the whole thing came off a bit odd. It was never a high five, or some other "fan" gesture, but always an intimate touch between friends...except I didn't know them that well.
During halftime we went outside to play beer pong, which is when I got the nickname Amanda Hug 'N Kiss. He was perhaps the worst one there. He insisted I play on his team for beer pong, and when he saw how awful I was at the game told me I needed to get spanked. Except he didn’t say it once, he kept saying it over and over in front of everyone. I was mortified. After the game was over, and the shenanigans didn’t end, I said my goodbyes and took off. I ended up meeting up with a friend for some drinks, where I told him about my day. He’s older, so I asked if I was overreacting, and he just shook his head and told me to be careful in the future.
I recognize that I may be reading into their gestures a bit much, but I’ve always trusted my instinct, and for the better part of that afternoon it was sending off major warning signals. I want to say third time is a charm, but right now I'm debating ever going back.
*Update: Last night I ordered Chinese food, and as I was standing there waiting for the girl to ring up my order I felt someone blowing on my ear. I whipped around, freaked out, and lo and behold it was the vice president. Come on!
November 19, 2009
November 16, 2009
The Great Porch War of '09
Shortly after moving in to my house, I got involved with a neighborhood cat in a territory battle over my front porch. At first there was just one notorious little feline, but her comrades have since come out of the woodwork, and now it's a full on war. They are bold fuckers. I yearn for the days of old when all I dealt with was a furry front mat, and shooing her off my rocking chairs.
Now the cats are climbing on the garbage cans at night in an attempt to launch (that's right, launch) themselves at my hanging plant, George. They climb on the hood of my car and leave their grubby, dusty cat footprints all over it. Oftentimes as I'm getting ready for bed I hear their awful cat howls - pleas for any male hobo cat in the neighborhood - and always coming from my front porch.
They're not homeless cats - some jerk old cat lady across the street owns all of them - but since they're not allowed inside her house they seek companionship, shelter, and a toilet at my place. I am starting to feel like Charlie out of It's Always Sunny who is always stalked by cats for some reason
Anyway, I was chatting to my landlady this afternoon because she always wants to know how I'm doing and if I've heard or seen anything suspicious - as part of the Neighborhood Watch she is always on the lookout - and I said no, just the cats. She laughs, and says, "Yeah, but at least we'll never have mice."
All right, Cats, you win this round. I hate mice more than I hate freeloading porch cats. Keep my house clear and I guess we'll call it even.
Now the cats are climbing on the garbage cans at night in an attempt to launch (that's right, launch) themselves at my hanging plant, George. They climb on the hood of my car and leave their grubby, dusty cat footprints all over it. Oftentimes as I'm getting ready for bed I hear their awful cat howls - pleas for any male hobo cat in the neighborhood - and always coming from my front porch.
They're not homeless cats - some jerk old cat lady across the street owns all of them - but since they're not allowed inside her house they seek companionship, shelter, and a toilet at my place. I am starting to feel like Charlie out of It's Always Sunny who is always stalked by cats for some reason
Anyway, I was chatting to my landlady this afternoon because she always wants to know how I'm doing and if I've heard or seen anything suspicious - as part of the Neighborhood Watch she is always on the lookout - and I said no, just the cats. She laughs, and says, "Yeah, but at least we'll never have mice."
All right, Cats, you win this round. I hate mice more than I hate freeloading porch cats. Keep my house clear and I guess we'll call it even.
November 15, 2009
The Future is Wide Open
Once I graduate my goal is to move back to Canada. Ideally, I would like to teach at the University of Toronto, because I love the city, but I wouldn't complain if I ended up in Vancouver or even Montreal. My biggest concern has been that even though I am a Canadian citizen, I won't be a top candidate since I've been educated primarily in the U.S. Canada loves to help their own succeed, but without the proper background at a Canadian university, I wasn't sure if I would be a suitable candidate.
Last year, I struck up a communication with Dr. Linda Hutcheon, who has written extensively on postmodern literature (my specialization), and who teaches at the University of Toronto. She was incredibly friendly, and we've stayed in touch as I transitioned to LSU. I recently wrote her to ask about what I could do to make myself more marketable to Canadian institutions upon completely my PhD. Her reply? Nothing. Apparently as a Canadian and a future professor of 20th century American literature, I will (depending on the work I do in as a PhD candidate) make it to the top of job lists anyway. Canada universities are hungry to hire their own back - especially those with U.S. experience and knowledge because it gives them an edge in the classroom.
It was the extra motivation I needed to keep building up my CV. The main author I want to study and write my dissertation on has not really made it into literary criticism yet, and no professor at LSU is familiar with him. It's been a tad frustrating to say the least, but this was what I needed to hear - I'll be the oddball at LSU if necessary because (hopefully) it will pay off in the end. I feel as though Canada is in my sights. It's a nice feeling.
Last year, I struck up a communication with Dr. Linda Hutcheon, who has written extensively on postmodern literature (my specialization), and who teaches at the University of Toronto. She was incredibly friendly, and we've stayed in touch as I transitioned to LSU. I recently wrote her to ask about what I could do to make myself more marketable to Canadian institutions upon completely my PhD. Her reply? Nothing. Apparently as a Canadian and a future professor of 20th century American literature, I will (depending on the work I do in as a PhD candidate) make it to the top of job lists anyway. Canada universities are hungry to hire their own back - especially those with U.S. experience and knowledge because it gives them an edge in the classroom.
It was the extra motivation I needed to keep building up my CV. The main author I want to study and write my dissertation on has not really made it into literary criticism yet, and no professor at LSU is familiar with him. It's been a tad frustrating to say the least, but this was what I needed to hear - I'll be the oddball at LSU if necessary because (hopefully) it will pay off in the end. I feel as though Canada is in my sights. It's a nice feeling.
November 12, 2009
Ice Ice Baby
A word, if I may, on ice skating. As a Canadian, I grew up ice skating. Throughout elementary school and even into junior high, our winter P.E. class often took place at an ice skating rink, or on skis as we practiced cross-country skiing across the school grounds. Pretty cool, eh? Even on the weekends, we'd often head over to the local rink to skate...and skate and skate and skate. As a result, I knew some nifty tricks on the ice.
Then I moved to Florida, where there were no ice rinks, and therefore no opportunities to keep up with it. And, unfortunately, it's not like riding a bike where you can walk away for a few years and pick it back up. The first time I got back on the ice was in 2006, when I lived in New York and had access to the free rink in Bryant Park. At first it was a shaky comedy of errors in which I slowly made my way around, often screaming as I barely avoided people, but I never fell. Sadly, though, all of my skills - skating backwards, doing crossovers and stopping short - were gone.
It turned into a ritual, and every Sunday I would take F train from my neighboorhood up to midtown and skate for a few hours. It was a way to unwind and prepare for the upcoming week. There is nothing - NOTHING - like stepping on to a clean sheet of ice. For me, it's almost a spiritual experience. Breathing deep the clean, cold air, and gliding forward, memories of my
" ice past" loaded in every step I take. Like the time I like Michael hold my hand in the sixth grade as our class did their weekly 30 minute free skate. Pairing up on the ice in the early years of junior high was the equivalent of macking it at weekend parties: an announcement to the whole grade that we were "together." Even though Bryant Park's rink was free, renting the skates was not, so eventually I purchased my own pair. However, not two months after getting them I moved back to Florida, where they slowly gathered dust. I looked for ice rinks in the area, but alas found none.
When I moved to Baton Rouge, I brought my skates with me. It was something I debated over for a while because if I couldn't find a rink in Florida, what were the chances in Louisiana? There they sat in my winter clothes bin, until this morning, as I hunted for a sweatshirt and stumbled across them. This rediscovery persuaded me to investigate rinks in the area, and to my surprise I found one. An olympic-sized skating rink open from mid-October to mid-April. I'm going this Sunday to check it out. In lieu of my walk around the lake, I'm going to do a few laps around the rink. I hope it's as nice as it sounds, because this could easily turn into weekly ritual. Hopefully with enough regular practice I can pick up my skills again - and even tempt a few friends to join me on the ice. There's nothing like going with someone who has never skated, and sharing the joy that so easily envelops you as you step onto that clean sheet on ice.
I don't think I've smiled this much in months.
Then I moved to Florida, where there were no ice rinks, and therefore no opportunities to keep up with it. And, unfortunately, it's not like riding a bike where you can walk away for a few years and pick it back up. The first time I got back on the ice was in 2006, when I lived in New York and had access to the free rink in Bryant Park. At first it was a shaky comedy of errors in which I slowly made my way around, often screaming as I barely avoided people, but I never fell. Sadly, though, all of my skills - skating backwards, doing crossovers and stopping short - were gone.
It turned into a ritual, and every Sunday I would take F train from my neighboorhood up to midtown and skate for a few hours. It was a way to unwind and prepare for the upcoming week. There is nothing - NOTHING - like stepping on to a clean sheet of ice. For me, it's almost a spiritual experience. Breathing deep the clean, cold air, and gliding forward, memories of my
" ice past" loaded in every step I take. Like the time I like Michael hold my hand in the sixth grade as our class did their weekly 30 minute free skate. Pairing up on the ice in the early years of junior high was the equivalent of macking it at weekend parties: an announcement to the whole grade that we were "together." Even though Bryant Park's rink was free, renting the skates was not, so eventually I purchased my own pair. However, not two months after getting them I moved back to Florida, where they slowly gathered dust. I looked for ice rinks in the area, but alas found none.
When I moved to Baton Rouge, I brought my skates with me. It was something I debated over for a while because if I couldn't find a rink in Florida, what were the chances in Louisiana? There they sat in my winter clothes bin, until this morning, as I hunted for a sweatshirt and stumbled across them. This rediscovery persuaded me to investigate rinks in the area, and to my surprise I found one. An olympic-sized skating rink open from mid-October to mid-April. I'm going this Sunday to check it out. In lieu of my walk around the lake, I'm going to do a few laps around the rink. I hope it's as nice as it sounds, because this could easily turn into weekly ritual. Hopefully with enough regular practice I can pick up my skills again - and even tempt a few friends to join me on the ice. There's nothing like going with someone who has never skated, and sharing the joy that so easily envelops you as you step onto that clean sheet on ice.
I don't think I've smiled this much in months.
November 11, 2009
Quintessential Season Music
Have you ever noticed that certain albums sound better during specific times of the year? Perhaps it's just me, but there are certain bands that become enhanced when played during a particular season. It's not that I don't listen to them at other times, but rather they sound better against a certain type of weather. For example, The Shins sound absolutely, quintessentially fall to me - leaves changing, a brisk wind. And Cat Power is very bundled up against the winter cold. Keane is reminiscent of the thaw, buds, and all that other spring stuff. Fleet Foxes is bright summer days where the smell of sunscreen permeates everything.
I'll be honest - this might be less seasonal and more memory-based. I first listened to all of these bands or singers during a specific season, and I guess when that season rolls around again it feels natural to pull them out and give 'em a good listen to. A lovely fit, if you will.
On a side note: this is also the case on those nights when I put in an effort to get ready before going out. I'm stuck on a certain few that can easily excite my mood with possibilities of the night to come. I pour a glass of wine, crank up Sinatra, Otis, Billie or Etta, and take my time. Silly, I know. But it feels very old NYC, and it's a habit hard to break.
I'll be honest - this might be less seasonal and more memory-based. I first listened to all of these bands or singers during a specific season, and I guess when that season rolls around again it feels natural to pull them out and give 'em a good listen to. A lovely fit, if you will.
On a side note: this is also the case on those nights when I put in an effort to get ready before going out. I'm stuck on a certain few that can easily excite my mood with possibilities of the night to come. I pour a glass of wine, crank up Sinatra, Otis, Billie or Etta, and take my time. Silly, I know. But it feels very old NYC, and it's a habit hard to break.
November 9, 2009
A Water Break
A small set back today: I did not get the group exercise (group X) instructor position I auditioned for last week at LSU's student gym, UREC. I thought it might not work out because the reaction to my audition seemed a bit tepid. Zumba is a very different kind of exercise class, and for those who have a background in group aerobics it can be a bit of a jolt. But, at the end of the day you either get it and you love it, or you don't and you walk away. I don't quite get how they didn't catch the excitement that comes through the music and the moves, but oh well. "Sorry Rory," as I like to say in my ever diminishing Canadian accent.
I must admit, though, I am pretty freakin' proud of myself. I passed the Zumba certification not even two weeks before I auditioned, and I managed to put together, memorize, and perform a thirty minute audition, having never done something like that before. I certainly learned a few things from the audition process that I'll be able to take on to my next one, and hopefully it will make me a stronger group X instructor in the end. I am a tad bummed that this particular gym didn't work out because I wanted to be the first one to bring Zumba to LSU, but the good news (I think?) is that I was the only one to try out for Zumba, so they won't introduce it quite yet and I still have a shot at getting a summer class.
On to the next gym in the meantime. I'm setting up interviews with Bally Total Fitness and Spectrum Fitness in town. I'm also meeting with a girl who teaches Zumba at the YMCA down the street from my house to see how she cues moves, and talk about the auditioning/interview process. I really only started this to teach at UREC, but I'm not going to let it stop me now that it hasn't worked out. This has developed into a stronger passion than even I could ever imagine.
Hopefully another gym will work out. Haha. Get it? Work out. Oh no, the puns have started.
I must admit, though, I am pretty freakin' proud of myself. I passed the Zumba certification not even two weeks before I auditioned, and I managed to put together, memorize, and perform a thirty minute audition, having never done something like that before. I certainly learned a few things from the audition process that I'll be able to take on to my next one, and hopefully it will make me a stronger group X instructor in the end. I am a tad bummed that this particular gym didn't work out because I wanted to be the first one to bring Zumba to LSU, but the good news (I think?) is that I was the only one to try out for Zumba, so they won't introduce it quite yet and I still have a shot at getting a summer class.
On to the next gym in the meantime. I'm setting up interviews with Bally Total Fitness and Spectrum Fitness in town. I'm also meeting with a girl who teaches Zumba at the YMCA down the street from my house to see how she cues moves, and talk about the auditioning/interview process. I really only started this to teach at UREC, but I'm not going to let it stop me now that it hasn't worked out. This has developed into a stronger passion than even I could ever imagine.
Hopefully another gym will work out. Haha. Get it? Work out. Oh no, the puns have started.
"Hey Snakeface, You De Devil!"
I like to consider myself an informed consumer. While I would love love love to purchase only ethically or organically grown products, my wallet likes to remind me that that time is still a few years off. When I lived in Florida, however, I had the option to balance my conscience and my budget at Publix, the loveliest grocery store in all the land. Between the sales they offered, and the organic products, I was able to pick and choose what I wanted to care about that week AND save money.
Yet, since moving to Louisiana it's been a hard transition when it comes to grocery shopping. So much so that I now equate it with laundry on my list of things to do but hate. My choices are Walmart, Target, Albertson's, Winn-Dixie or expensive locally owned co-ops where the food is divine but crazy expensive. When I first moved here I shopped at Albertson's. I figured it was as close as I was going to get to Publix, but after a few weeks of high-end receipts, I decided to shift to Target. The savings improved slightly, but driving 15 minutes out of the way wasn't helping either, so last week I did my grocery shopping at Walmart for the first time ever. And let me tell you - the self-loathing was intense.
My weekly grocery list usually includes fruits, veggies for a salad, sandwich meat and cheese, and ingredients to make two meals, plus some various odds and ends for snacks or what have you. Such fare would cost me close to if not over $100 at Albertson's, but at Walmart? Under $60. That's a huge savings every week. But I can't figure out how to balance my wallet's new found freedom with the knowledge that I'm buying my food stuffs at a local-store-killing, soul-crushing, employee-abusing corporation.
I can reason it away by saying I will only do this for a few years until either I graduate, or my paychecks improve, because eventually I would like to reach a point where I'm splurging not on clothes or crap but groceries. Still, for the moment, I feel like a big bag of wrong whenever I walk through those sliding doors.
Yet, since moving to Louisiana it's been a hard transition when it comes to grocery shopping. So much so that I now equate it with laundry on my list of things to do but hate. My choices are Walmart, Target, Albertson's, Winn-Dixie or expensive locally owned co-ops where the food is divine but crazy expensive. When I first moved here I shopped at Albertson's. I figured it was as close as I was going to get to Publix, but after a few weeks of high-end receipts, I decided to shift to Target. The savings improved slightly, but driving 15 minutes out of the way wasn't helping either, so last week I did my grocery shopping at Walmart for the first time ever. And let me tell you - the self-loathing was intense.
My weekly grocery list usually includes fruits, veggies for a salad, sandwich meat and cheese, and ingredients to make two meals, plus some various odds and ends for snacks or what have you. Such fare would cost me close to if not over $100 at Albertson's, but at Walmart? Under $60. That's a huge savings every week. But I can't figure out how to balance my wallet's new found freedom with the knowledge that I'm buying my food stuffs at a local-store-killing, soul-crushing, employee-abusing corporation.
I can reason it away by saying I will only do this for a few years until either I graduate, or my paychecks improve, because eventually I would like to reach a point where I'm splurging not on clothes or crap but groceries. Still, for the moment, I feel like a big bag of wrong whenever I walk through those sliding doors.
November 5, 2009
A Beast in the Southeast
I'm a sweaty girl. The phrase doesn't seem to translate in the south where the women-folk are bred to be beautiful belles who would be horrified at such a thing. But honestly, having been born up north, I get a bit sweaty when the temperature starts to pass 70, when most people down here start reaching for a thin sweater. The thick Polish build doesn't help either, though. As my Mom says, we were made for hard labor in a field somewhere. I see it most often on those hot days or after a workout. I look around and other girls are misty at best, whereas it looks like someone spiteful threw a bucket of water on me.
Anyway, during my Zumba audition I noticed that one of the girls who was participating in order to judge my teaching techniques wasn't putting in much effort. Here I was thrusting, popping, and generally shaking it, and all she could muster were a few half-hearted steps. Afterwards, I was panting slightly, and the sweat was clearly dripping down my face. The girl who couldn't seem to get into it cocked her head to the side, "Umm, are there, like, any modifications that you could, like, make to the different movies? Because, like, that was, like, fun, but, like, I didn't even break a sweat."
Get out.
Anyway, during my Zumba audition I noticed that one of the girls who was participating in order to judge my teaching techniques wasn't putting in much effort. Here I was thrusting, popping, and generally shaking it, and all she could muster were a few half-hearted steps. Afterwards, I was panting slightly, and the sweat was clearly dripping down my face. The girl who couldn't seem to get into it cocked her head to the side, "Umm, are there, like, any modifications that you could, like, make to the different movies? Because, like, that was, like, fun, but, like, I didn't even break a sweat."
Get out.
The Seventh Beer
I wouldn't call it regret, for that would imply a giving up of sorts, and I'm not there yet. I hope never to be there, in fact. To reach a point where you no longer try let alone want to try would be incredibly sad, especially since the whole point of life is a series of trying.
I just can't even begin to explain how uncomfortable I am here, and how much I crave - physically crave - my home. And not home as in West Palm where Mom and Dad currently reside, but home home. Toronto. The Great White North. Where things might not be much better, but I would at least have family close by, and I would be in my city.
I got all dolled up last night. I played Otis Redding and curled my hair and did my makeup. I went out to a bar, had two beers and watched an hour's worth of the World Series. I smiled and laughed and oohed and aahed at various plays. I tried to make conversation with those around me, but apart from an older gentleman who kept sneezing into his beer and staring at me, I didn't get any attention. And the funny part is that I'm not even looking for romantic attention. I just want a fucking friend.
As the foam rings on my pint glass started to resemble those on a redwood stump, I paid my tab and made my way next door where Galactic was to play. It was pretty empty initially, so I stood around watching more of the World Series on one of the two TVs in the place. People drifted in - all groups. I saw this cute guy wearing a funny version of the Louisiana state seal, and went over to ask him where he got his shirt. He was very polite about it, but didn't try to turn it into a conversation so I wandered away. In the bathroom, I complimented a girl on her boots, but after a minute of fashion-talk she and her friend went back to their boyfriends. After a few more beers, I spotted State Seal Shirt again and decided to go introduce myself. After I had explained that I had just moved here and didn't know anyone, he started to open up. His name was Scott, his friends Dane and Howard. Very nice guys who had graduated this past year and were all living and working in New Orleans. The conversation was a bit stilted, and I got the impression that I was imposing so when the music started I moved away slightly to dance.
I can't tell what is the problem. Me? This city? The people? The timing? Some combination of all four? Yes, they were from out of town so of course no need to form lifelong bonds that night, but the unfriendliness factor blows me away. And, true, they were friendly but more in a polite, "Why does this chick keep talking to us?" kind of way. But besides them, I can't ever think of a time when I met someone and said, "I don't need you hanging around. My quota on friends is full up."
I'm not giving up. I am going to continue putting myself out there. But you better believe I'm going to do everything in my power to graduate in three years instead of four so I can hightail it back to Toronto. Not where everything will be perfect, but where I'll feel at home instead of utterly on my own.
I have to say, though. The life lessons I learned last night were invaluable.
1. You can only approach girls in the bathroom. If you try to talk to them in the bar area they think you're going after their men.
2. While you shouldn't lie, try to avoid telling men you're getting your PhD if they ask what you're doing in school. The intimidation factor is a buzzkill, and they will walk away like a gunshot.
I could have sworn there was another one, but that could have been the seventh beer instead of the third insight.
I just can't even begin to explain how uncomfortable I am here, and how much I crave - physically crave - my home. And not home as in West Palm where Mom and Dad currently reside, but home home. Toronto. The Great White North. Where things might not be much better, but I would at least have family close by, and I would be in my city.
I got all dolled up last night. I played Otis Redding and curled my hair and did my makeup. I went out to a bar, had two beers and watched an hour's worth of the World Series. I smiled and laughed and oohed and aahed at various plays. I tried to make conversation with those around me, but apart from an older gentleman who kept sneezing into his beer and staring at me, I didn't get any attention. And the funny part is that I'm not even looking for romantic attention. I just want a fucking friend.
As the foam rings on my pint glass started to resemble those on a redwood stump, I paid my tab and made my way next door where Galactic was to play. It was pretty empty initially, so I stood around watching more of the World Series on one of the two TVs in the place. People drifted in - all groups. I saw this cute guy wearing a funny version of the Louisiana state seal, and went over to ask him where he got his shirt. He was very polite about it, but didn't try to turn it into a conversation so I wandered away. In the bathroom, I complimented a girl on her boots, but after a minute of fashion-talk she and her friend went back to their boyfriends. After a few more beers, I spotted State Seal Shirt again and decided to go introduce myself. After I had explained that I had just moved here and didn't know anyone, he started to open up. His name was Scott, his friends Dane and Howard. Very nice guys who had graduated this past year and were all living and working in New Orleans. The conversation was a bit stilted, and I got the impression that I was imposing so when the music started I moved away slightly to dance.
I can't tell what is the problem. Me? This city? The people? The timing? Some combination of all four? Yes, they were from out of town so of course no need to form lifelong bonds that night, but the unfriendliness factor blows me away. And, true, they were friendly but more in a polite, "Why does this chick keep talking to us?" kind of way. But besides them, I can't ever think of a time when I met someone and said, "I don't need you hanging around. My quota on friends is full up."
I'm not giving up. I am going to continue putting myself out there. But you better believe I'm going to do everything in my power to graduate in three years instead of four so I can hightail it back to Toronto. Not where everything will be perfect, but where I'll feel at home instead of utterly on my own.
I have to say, though. The life lessons I learned last night were invaluable.
1. You can only approach girls in the bathroom. If you try to talk to them in the bar area they think you're going after their men.
2. While you shouldn't lie, try to avoid telling men you're getting your PhD if they ask what you're doing in school. The intimidation factor is a buzzkill, and they will walk away like a gunshot.
I could have sworn there was another one, but that could have been the seventh beer instead of the third insight.
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